they

The maali is here, my son told me
Could you ask him to prune the tulsi
pull out the onions, pluck the chillies.

I'm on my way to the gym, he replied
So with a grimace and a sigh
I stepped outdoor
to talk to Mirza Noor.

The heat hit me like a wave
I thought I'd get carried away
in a dead faint , or half crazed.

Mirza Noor stood in the sun
as thin as the hosepipe he held
an inquiring look on the gaunt face
covered with grime and sweat.
Half ashamed , I stepped back
to return with a glass of mango shake.

sweat, blood and toil on sun baked lands
is the price they pay for the food we eat
yet their troubles do not crease our brows
to their plight we pay no heed.


(pvks)  ©